From Afar - Chapter 3

From Afar III

Tag stared. This was not a man in front of him, or at least not a man like any man he’d met before. Black lines swirled across a chest devoid of hair, but it was below that the real differences appeared. At first glance, Tag thought Rast was a eunuch, barbaric but possible. But no, two tiny round orbs, which Tag assumed were testicles--or maybe they were ovaries--lay flush with Rast’s groin. These orbs--testicles--were they smaller than normal for his species, chemically or surgically altered or was this normal anatomy? His penis was small and almost entirely trapped within a layer of skin. Tag wouldn’t have even realized it was a penis if Rast hadn’t boldly shown it to Tag.

“Please get dressed.” Tag said, averting his eyes.

“You may look. We have no body shyness.”

“No, I have seen enough.” Tag leaned against the wall, shielding his face in his hands. “Please get dressed.”

“You understand that I am not human?”

“Yes.”

Tag remained leaning against the wall, his eyes shut. “This is real,” he kept repeating to himself like a mantra. Rast wasn’t a dressed up human. No one would allow his body to be mutilated in such a manner for a training exercise.

Tag flinched as a hand landed on his back. “Come sit. I will not harm you.”

Tag remained motionless, his thoughts in turmoil. He’d dreamed of this since he was a small boy, and he hadn’t believed Rast. They weren’t alone out here. What did it mean?

“Taga, you are part of my pod. I expect to be obeyed. I will require you to obey. I wish us all to survive.”

Tag whipped around. He could feel a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, but the temperature hadn’t changed. “Are we still on New Terra?” It was a stupid question. No one had been truthful with Tag: not his family, not his comrades, and not his government. He couldn’t expect it now. 

“Yes, we are in quarantine awaiting departure. You were to remain alone, but there was fear you would hurt yourself.”

Tag laughed bitterly, swallowing hard at the bile rising in his throat. “I’ve made a good impression.” 

“You are a member of our seven. We want to see your true heart, not a facade. I’m afraid our introduction has not been pleasant. It appears your government did little to prepare you for my arrival.”

Tag laughed again. What else could he do? He’d imagined and studied the possibility of alien worlds, but he’d never expected to stand facing an alien, to feel an alien’s breath against his face, to touch an alien’s skin. Clothed again, Rast could pass for a citizen of New Terra or Pastoral. Underneath Rast had been different, the dark swirling marks across his torso contrasted against the absolute smoothness of his skin. Tag wasn’t sure if the dark patterns were skin tones or tattoos. Bright lines of red and green had crisscrossed his abdomen. Those had to be tattoos. Human skin didn’t come in primary colors, but Rast wasn’t human. Was he even a male of his species? What hung between Rast’s legs didn’t correlate with Tag’s expectations for a male.

“What are you?” Tag said, feeling his throat constrict as he swallowed.

“I am Saptan.”

“No, not that.” Tag flushed in frustration. Discussions of sex had been taboo as a child, a taboo that had never left him. Almost anyone else in the fleet could have effortlessly asked this creature in front of him to explain what Tag had seen.

“You mean the difference in my genitals. I’m kwi. We have four genders in our people. Male and female as in your species and kwi  and ki. I am kwi,” Rast repeated. “All my seven are either kwi  or ki. Sit and we will talk.”

Tag’s legs collapsed under him, and he crumpled into a sitting position. He ran his good hand through his hair, teasing the short strands upright into the prickly and daring style he’d tried for one month at university before deciding he was fooling no one besides himself. “Are you castrated?”

“I’m sterile, and my hormonal levels are at a minimum,” Rast answered ambiguously. “Many of our population are sterile.”

“Natural selection favors reproductive success.” Tag wasn’t sure how he’d managed to make some sort of intelligent scientific comment. His brain felt like a reed fish trying to float through the thick swamps of the north coast before it could break through and swim in the open seas.

“Initially, but too much reproductive success can be harmful.The selection pressures work both on the individual and group. In my species, the pressure on the group became dominant. It is nothing to fear.”

Rast began to hum again, an almost musical sound, accompanied by deep vibrations in his chest. He pulled Tag close, stroking the closed cropped hair, his fingers moving in time with his humming.

Tag’s hand ached; his mind swirled and heaved with new information. He should be asking questions, learning all he could about this strange creature, but he couldn’t seem to escape the languidness filling his body, his desire not to move or think. He let his head drop to his chest and sat quietly except for the slight tremors he couldn’t seem to suppress.

“Have they drugged the air?” Tag asked thickly. He couldn’t smell the sweet smell of the sleeping agents, but maybe there were others with no odor.

“I don’t believe so,” Rast said, pausing his humming. “I have not noticed any change, and I believe our physiology is too similar for an anesthetic agent to work on you and not me. Your body is responding to the chemicals it released when it was under tension. Rest. We will have plenty of time to talk later.”

Tag closed his eyes; he didn’t have the strength for anything else. He drifted off into a restless sleep of dreams and nightmares. He awoke grabbing at his wrists, but there were no chains, no barbarians in masks dragging him toward unspeakable things, no eunuch soldiers with spears and cruel lashes.

Tag wiped his forehead on his shirt. Even without a blanket and in this chilly prison, he was soaked with sweat. He struggled to his feet, swaying slightly. He wanted water.

Rast appeared to be asleep, folded into a  small ball on the floor, his legs drawn up to his chest and encircled by his long, smooth arms. Tag studied the sleeping figure. Clothed, he appeared so human. Tag had never seen a human sleep curled upon himself, but it was not impossible. It was what he’d seen when the man had taken off his shorts; that was impossible. No human looked like that. It could be done with cosmetic surgery, but no one would deface their body in such a way. The tattoos if they were tattoos--yes. His first roommate at university had a strange assortment of tattoos, small interlocking chains on his wrist and biceps, declarations of teenage love across one shoulder. These markings had been swirling down the chest and around the groin, beautiful abstract patterns. They’d looked natural, not inked over normal skin tones. The markings were easier to think of than the two tiny, round lumps under the skin.

Rast had said four genders. It defied nature. Higher mammals had two sexes; reproductive success was an overwhelming biological necessity. Yes, there were the oddities like him who’d never felt the pull of sexual attraction, or maybe, as one pretty girl in a too short skirt had said the desire was so repressed he didn’t know it was there. Not for girls, but not for boys either, or the free flowing mix enjoyed on the tight spaceships. He was the oddity, the man who everyone knew bunked each night alone. Unmarried, on his home world he was still a boy, still under the jurisdiction of his parents if he were to go back. On Pastoral, marriage and child bearing were required passages into the adult world. Rast, or so he said, came from a world where some never married and bore no children.

There were species that did that, lower species, insects with large number of drones. Tag stared at Rast. Could this be a drone, an emasculated creature sent out to meet and deal with danger? Tag chewed on his lower lip, a habit he’d had since his earliest school days. He believed in the anthropomorphic principle, the idea that for life to survive it would have to develop and flourish in conditions very similar to ancient Earth’s. This alien looked like him; the selection pressures should have been the same. Why was Rast so different--different in a fundamental way, not in hair color or skin tones or number of fingers? Had the other species of Rast’s home world evolved similarly? Were the beasts of burden born already castrated?

Tag walked to the emergency box and opened a sealed packet of water, letting it pour down his throat and splash on his face. He’d dreamed of space since he was a child, watching the bright stars of Pastoral’s night skies. His dreams had been full of exciting aliens with wondrous technologies, machines that could move you through space and time and reassemble you whole at a new location. Dreams were better than reality. In reality, mass stayed stubbornly as mass unless destroyed into energy. Aliens weren’t exciting; they were frightening. Tag wiped his forehead; he was afraid of this thing curled on the floor. He could kill it, smother it with the plastic that sealed the containers in the emergency box.

Tag shuddered, clenching his broken hand, welcoming the reality of the pain searing through his body. This was his dream, what he’d wanted all his life, and now he was afraid, no better than the shrill politicians and preachers stoking people’s fears. There were so many things he should ask this man; man was much better than thing or alien. He couldn’t let his fear control him; a fear from the dawn of time when the unknown meant danger, a genetic coding that ingrained patterns for protecting those of similar backgrounds and fearing all others.

Was Rast to be feared? He’d been kind and gentle, at least in human terms which were Tag’s only reference point. He hadn’t attacked Tag even with the clear advantage of Tag’s injury. Of course, attack would hardly be profitable for Rast in the custody of Tag’s fellow humans. They were still on New Terra. This was a military facility; it was probably even the facility mentioned in the briefing. Tag knew of the existence of a shadowy, highly secret facility not far from the capital. The presence of the aliens, of Rast, had been true, but Tag had expected formal briefings and controlled interactions, not to be locked in an isolation unit with a man from another planet.

Tag felt his face redden. He’d been alone; it was his out of control behavior that had brought Rast into the room. Rast himself had mentioned that he’d convinced the guards to break protocol because he feared Tag would damage himself further. Tag tried to wiggle his swollen fingers and winced. He had damaged himself. The isolation had been to prevent the spread of contagion, everything in the room was new and sterile. Why hadn’t they told Tag? Had it also been a chance to study an untempered human response to the unknown? Tag had given them that--flat, unmitigated panic.

“Are you awake?” Rast stirred, drawing himself into a sitting position but keeping his arms clasped around his knees.

“Yes.” Tag watched Rast. The slim muscles had rippled under the thin shirt as he’d rolled into a sitting position. He gave the impression of relaxation, but Tag had no doubt that Rast could move quickly and assuredly if the need arose.

“Did you rest?”

Tag started to say yes, the bland answer you gave your superiors but then shook his head. “No. I tried. I had bad dreams.”

“You were going to tell me yes. Why did you change your mind?”

“I don’t know.” That was honest enough; Tag didn’t know or at least not accurately enough to articulate a reason. Something in his gut reacted to Rast in ways he didn’t understand. He’d be hard to lie to.

“Honesty is highly valued among the Saptans and will be expected at all times from the seven.”

“What is the seven?”

Rast made a faint noise, which might have been a soft chuckle or a tuneless hum. “I see you have gotten your wits about you enough to start to ask questions. I wondered at the necessary time span.”

Tag flushed and stared at his bare toes. He’d be more comfortable in his uniform with the authority of silver tokens on his shoulder.

“That was not a correction,” Rast said, his eyes flickering for an instance to Tag’s face before looking away again. “You were placed at a distinct disadvantage. Your own people were not forthcoming with you, and you are not my first contact. I had some knowledge. Are your people trying to measure your reaction to unexpected situations?”

“I think so.” Tag wanted to stare at Rast, to try to read the man’s expression, but Rast never kept his eyes solidly on Tag. Rast’s culture must have a taboo against direct eye contact.

“It seems unnecessarily cruel.”

Tag didn’t say anything. It was cruel, but these were his people; he didn’t want to criticize them.

“I still understand little of your people,” Rast said.

Tag started to nod and then mumbled, “Yes.” He needed to remember the body language was different.

“I understand nods and shrugs; D’John taught me.”

“You’re one step ahead of me,” Tag snapped. “Why do you always look away if you’re such an expert on humans? It’s rude in my culture.”

“I’m sorry.” Rast’s green eyes rested on Tag’s face, searching and unblinking. “I had not intended to be rude. I was trying to provide you with a normal behavioral model for my people. Direct eye contact is considered aggressive, challenging. My understanding is you are trained in these things.”

Tag dropped his eyes. He could feel the red creeping up his neck with no high uniform collar to hide it. 

“You will be living among my people. You are in my seven. I thought it best for me to start to teach you our behaviors immediately. Am I wrong?”

“No, you are right.”

“You are upset?”

Tag nodded, not bothering to speak. Rast had said he understood human gestures.

“I made many mistakes with D’John. I hope to make fewer with you.”

“You’ve mentioned several times that you made mistakes with D’John,” Tag said, trying to pull his brain together. Rast was speaking in Tag’s language, but Tag almost felt they could both be speaking foreign tongues. D’John wasn’t an Alliance name; the consonant cluster was foreign on Tag’s tongue.

“D’John died.” Rast shut his eyes, and a hum vibrated from his throat.

“Who was D’John?” Tag looked away rather than watching Rast’s face. That was the custom; he could copy politeness.

“He was a member of a Traveler crew.”

Tag dredged up memories of the information on the Traveler voyages. “Do you mean John and Amanda Barker?” They were Traveler V, lost during the voyage, no records recovered.

“Yes, we never knew Amanda. She died on a spacewalk repairing their craft.”

Tag shuddered involuntarily. The idea of an untethered spacewalker floating away into cold, black space to die had always terrified him. He hated spacewalking, and fortunately he was treated more as a mission specialist than part of the regular crew. He’d only ever been in the vacuum of space for a drill.

“They’re recorded in our histories as lost with no alien contact.”

“We brought D’John home.”

Death rituals were an important source of information on a culture. They spoke of the value of life, belief in the afterlife, and social stratification. Elaborate structures, such as the pyramids, could only exist in highly stratified cultures. Pastoons buried their dead in simple wooden boxes before two sunrises. They left no artifacts for future archeologists.

Tag was already dead to his parents. He wouldn’t even have a small grave in the family cemetery. His birth was still recorded in the family book, but a line was drawn through his name. His father had done it in front of him, a bold black stroke with the gold ballpoint pin that was only used to write in the book. The time shift wouldn’t affect Tag, dead without the ritual of death, dead while still alive.

“Why is he D’John?” Tag managed to pull his mind away from maudlin thoughts about death and the vacuum of space.

“Because he’s dead.” Rast must have read the confusion in Tag’s face. “It is an honor for our dead. Only criminals or the most hated exiles would be referred to without the honorific after death. It would be an insult.”

“Don’t speak ill of the dead,” Tag muttered.

“I was not.”

“No, that wasn’t what I meant. Our customs are similar. You add an honorific; we speak bland kindnesses.”

“D’John was an excellent man.”

The tone of Rast’s voice made Tag look over. It was vibrating, reverberating a deep sadness. Rast’s face was neutral, but that might be the Saptan way. Tag had seen Rast smile, but he hadn’t seen him cry.

“You miss him?” Tag asked.

Rast didn’t answer. He made a humming noise that seem to indicate agreement along with great sadness.

“I’m sorry.” It was a stupid comment, a rote response to loss. Tag hadn’t knows John. The Traveler series had been before Tag’s parents’ time. He had no connection to a man lost in the time shifts of relativity. They’d all died or gone crazy. The same fate would befell Tag. No wonder the admirals had locked him in here. They were afraid Tag would come to his senses and run from this mission.

“You are one of our seven. I won’t let it happen to you.” Rast’s tone was flat, and his eyes were focused on the wall.

“You won’t let what happen to me?”

Rast shifted, unfolding and refolding his left leg. It was the first time Tag had seen him be restless. “I won’t let you die.”

Tag stared at Rast; he didn’t care if the Saptan culture considered it rude. This man, creature, extraterrestrial being felt responsible for Commander Barker’s death. He could hear it in Rast’s voice. Tag knew he wasn’t mistaken.

“I’m not planning to do anything foolish.” Tag gave a rueful glance at his hand. “I’ve already done that. I have it out of my system. Why are you responsible for Commander Barker’s death?” Tag had found blunt and unexpected questioning provided more answers than the subtle, gradual approach. He didn’t have the people skills to make people want to talk with him.

“He was not in our seven,” Rast said ambiguously and with a hint of finality as if more questions would not provide more answers. “We will have many months to talk. I see you do not value patience. Let’s talk of your future, not your past.”

Tag made a muted noise of frustration and without thinking slapped his sore hand against the wall in exasperation. He shot up, cradling the hand against his body and cursing at his own stupidity.

“I thought you weren’t planning to do anything foolish.”

Tag shot a quick glance at Rast. He was sitting on the floor all loose limbed and relaxed. Had he been teasing? Tag couldn’t tell. Rast’s gaze was neutrally focused on a piece of bare wall. Rast rose to his feet, gracefully in one smooth motion. He obviously rose from the floor this way often; there was no groping for handholds or awkward spreading of his feet.

“Come sit with me. Do not hurt your hand again.”

That was an order. The tone was higher, the pitch softer, almost feminine, but Tag was in a paramilitary organization. He recognized an order, the lack of extra words, the fact that Rast was moving toward Tag, reaching for Tag’s good hand. Rast’s fingers circled Tag’s wrist. He pulled Tag toward the floor.

“Sit, Taga.”

“You expect to be obeyed.”

“You need to be cared for. It is my duty.” Rast’s thumb was making small circles on the soft skin on the underside of Tag’s wrist.

“Stop.” Tag jerked his arm away with too much force. “We don’t touch like that.” Tag scrambled to his feet, trying to put distance between himself and the strangely hypnotic Rast. “We don’t touch that way,” Tag repeated, hating the hint of hysteria in his voice.

“You are with us now, and we do.” 

It was simple, straight forward and an unequivocal demand. Tag hadn’t been around Rast more than a few hours, but it was already clear that Rast exercised authority in whatever relationship he had with his crew and now with Tag. Keep your head down and obey, Tag told himself.

“Come sit down. Self-injury is not productive.” Rast didn’t get up, and he didn’t sharpen his tone, none of the cues that human’s exhibited when giving orders, but all the same it was an order.

Tag sank to the floor, cradling his sore hand against his chest. It was aching, sending a pounding up through his temples. “What is the pod, and why is it seven?” Tag asked, trying to turn his attention from the fear and pain that were threatening to engulf him. Ask questions. Study. That was what he was trained to do.

“We live and work in groups of seven. It is our base family or pack unit. I have been with most of my seven since the changing.” Rast sidled closer and rested his hand on Tag’s back. “We are very close. It helps us survive far away from home.”

“You don’t form couples or have life mates?” Tag said, struggling for a word that would convey the idea of two united for life with the purpose of procreating. Tag had asserted vigorously that intelligent life would follow that model. During the defense of his dissertation, Tag had argued that herd dynamics would prevent the development of technologically advanced civilizations; too much energy would be expended attaining and defending the rank of breeding male. In addition, herd dynamics would dangerously limit the gene pool, as only a few select males would contribute to the genetic pool. Species that followed this model also had a strong inclination to destroy the offspring of other males. Infanticide hardly seemed a good foundation for a successful society.

“I cannot mate,” Rast said simply. “Our relationships are not governed by the need or demand to procreate, to dominate genetically.”

“But some of your species must breed?”

“Yes, but I have little contact with them after the time of changing. I live among those most similar to me.”

“The time of changing?” Tag was aware that Rast had grasped his wrist and again was rhythmically stroking. Tag should pull away; he was being petted by an alien. He wasn’t sure if Rast was a man, a woman, or something indescribably in between that Tag couldn’t name or imagine.

“You will see. Today is your first day with us. You have many days to learn about our social structure.” Rast rubbed his knuckles down Tag’s cheek. “It will make more sense when you meet the others.”

“There are five others?”

“With you six.”

“Why did you not have six?”

“I--we lost one.” 

“Is that how Commander Barker--D”John died?” The alien sounds felt funny on Tag’s tongue, but this was how Rast referred to him. Tag should try to mimic the form of address.

“D’John died. D’Tan was killed in an accident.”

“What are you not telling me?” Tag shouted in frustration. “Don’t start the humming. We find it aggravating, like a tap always dripping.”

“Is it common to leave taps on to create a sense of frustration?”

“No.” Tag wanted to scream but he choked his voice down to a strangled mutter. He didn’t want to talk about taps; he wanted to know about John, and this extraterrestrial was thwarting his questions.

“Have you eaten?” Rast asked, his knuckles again sliding along Tag’s cheek.

“I’m not hungry,” Tag said automatically. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, but he did remember the taste of the food in the survival packets. Shipboard food tasted reprocessed; survival rations tasted of nothing. Experienced spacers, as the men and women who reenlisted called themselves, insisted that the most important emergency supply was a packet of a favorite hot sauce. Tag had done a survival drill on the desert side of New Terra with several spacers. He’d thought the taste of chili and cayenne pepper would never leave his mouth.

“Our keepers are strict about maintaining natural light rhythms. As the light is beginning to develop a purplish cast, it is time for the evening meal.”

Tag looked up. Rast must be more sensitive to the dimmer effect; Tag couldn’t yet see the purplish cast.

Rast opened the emergency box and drew out two rations. “We have Salisbury steak and chicken potpie. Which would you prefer?”

Tag couldn’t help but laugh, a hysterical laugh of released tension and exhaustion. He choked with laughter, wiping tears from his eyes. “It should be sawdust and gravel.”

“Do you eat sawdust and gravel?”

Tag couldn’t tell if Rast was teasing or was serious. There wasn’t a telltale crinkling around his eyes or a shadow of a smile. “No, but emergency rations taste like it.”

“I see. I thought your species preferred bland food.”

“Not that bland!” Tag smiled; he was joking with an alien. He’d dreamed of alien cultures, but he’d never even in his wildest dreams imagined laughing and joking with a man from another world. 

“Is your mood going to shift again?” Rast asked, his head cocked like Tag’s grandmother when she asked questions, but unlike his grandmother whose gray eyes would never leave Tag’s face, Rast was looking at the wall. His eyes only flickered once or twice toward Tag.

“I don’t know.” Tag took a deep breath. He’d gone from one extreme of unprofessionalism to the other. First he’d tried to attack Rast, and now he was laughing like an overexcited teenager. “I’m sorry.”

“An apology is not necessary. You’ve done nothing to damage me or our seven. Come, let’s eat. I can tell you of our cuisine, and you can entertain me with tales of your food that does not taste of wood chips or gravel.”

Tag sat on the floor, a self-heating meal on his lap. It was so ordinary, sitting with his legs crossed and stirring unenthusiastically at the brown lump labeled Salisbury Steak. Rast had chosen the chicken potpie, spooning up the gray sliminess with his spoon.

“Eat it. I don’t think breaking up its texture with further mixing will improve its flavor.”

Tag looked up from his meal, startled, letting his gaze rest on Rast for a moment before looking away. “I’ve never been told to eat by my commanding officer before.”

“I am not your commanding officer.”

“Then what are you?” Tag asked with exasperation. He was exhausted; his eyes felt leaden. He sniffed the air for signs of anesthetic gas, but the air was odorless. If he sniffed hard enough, maybe he could smell the faint odor of dehydrated Salisbury steak, or maybe it was wishful thinking. The lights were becoming dimmer now, an artificial twilight. If he strained his ears, he could hear the faint sound of waves crashing on a beach, the white noise of a synthetic evening.

“I am a member of your seven.”

Tag rubbed the back of his neck. He wanted to wake up in his own bunk with the whir of environmental control engines and the grumpy snoring of his current roommate. “What is a seven?” He’d asked this question before, but the answer hadn’t been clear. It had just created more questions in his mind. 

Rast swallowed the last of his food. “Eat, and I’ll try to tell you.”

“I’m not hungry,” Tag almost spat at Rast. What was Rast’s obsession with emergency rations?

“Your body requires nutrition.”

“I’m not in danger of suffering from malnutrition. We’re not that delicate.” 

“Are you more likely to obey if you think of me as your commanding officer?”

Tag shrugged. “Commanding officers have means of enforcing their dictates.”

“How?”

“They can yell, put you on report, write a note in your file, or transfer you to less attractive assignments.”

Rast smiled; it was definitely a smile. Humor flickered in his emerald green eyes. “I don’t think I can transfer you since we are both confined in this room. Should I try yelling or putting you on report? What happens if you are put on report?”

“I don’t know; I’ve never been put on report.”

“You must have heard.”

“I think my last captain would confine people to quarters or assign worthless chores.”

“We are already confined, and I do not have any chores for you to perform.”

“What would your parents do?” Tag asked, stirring his food around. It wasn’t increasing his appetite, and his stubbornness had overtaken his sense of self-preservation. His father had always called him the most stubborn child in the galaxy. His father was the last person who’d tried to make him eat. During his years as a graduate student, Wayne had kidded Tag about his constant diet of fried pastries and over-sweetened tea. Wayne had been the only person since childhood dinners who Tag had frequently eaten with, the last person who had a chance to notice Tag’s eccentric eating habits.

“I was always hungry when I was a child. I ate more than all my siblings,” Rast said.

“No, I mean in general if you were not obedient.”

“You are trying to distract me.” Rast moved closer and ran his fingers down the back of Tag’s neck. “Relax and eat, Taga.”

Tag flinched at the contact before mentally berating himself. Rast touched; his culture touched. Tag must accept it if he were going to learn.

“D’John liked to be touched.”

“I am Pastoon. We are very reserved with strangers.”

“I am not a stranger; we share a seven. You belong to us.”

Tag’s head jerked up from his over stirred dinner at the word belonged. Rast had an excellent grasp of formal Alliance; he’d even used some idioms. That word choice had not been accidental. “I do not belong to anyone.”

“You belonged to your space service. They tricked you. They confined you to this room and tested your response to isolation and the introduction of me.”

“I volunteered for the space service. We have no conscription or slavery.”

“Slavery has been outlawed for over two thousand years. Belonging is not about slavery. We all belong to you if that eases your mind.”

“You have a collective culture?” Tag asked. That would make sense with only a limited breeding population. The collective would support the reproductively able. It made whatever Rast was less of an evolutionary dead end.

“In a manner of speaking. The seven are responsible for each and every member. Now eat. We have a voyage of months during which we can hash out our respective behavioral and cultural systems.”

Tag didn’t want to eat. The food looked terrible, and its texture was even worse, soft and gritty at the same time. He longed to throw it on the floor in a childish tantrum, but he was Rast’s only contact with humanity. Tag had a duty and responsibility to show the best of his world, and he had already proved himself woefully inadequate. He’d caused himself injury; he’d tried to attack a being who was only behaving in the most pacific way, and now he was acting like a spoiled child in front of an unwanted dinner. Tag shoveled another spoonful in his mouth, swallowing quickly to avoid the taste.

Rast didn’t comment on his victory. He sat against Tag, his fingers playing down the human’s back in a surprisingly soothing motion. Tag found himself leaning against Rast as he finished the final bite of Salisbury steak and moved on to the dessert that was optimistically labeled berry cobbler. 

The lights continued to soften, leaving the room in a pale silver tone, a poor replication of the light of the twin moons. If Tag remembered the calendar right, both would be full tonight, leaving the planet bathed in a pale light until sunrise. The ocean noises had increased to the sound of a strong tide coming in, the waves hitting the rocks and piers.

“Do you have oceans on your home world?” Tag asked sleepily.

“Yes, but I have never seen them. Lak was born on the ocean. Lak finds this noise soothing. For me, it is a signal that the room will soon be dark, but it has no psychological pull.” 

“There is only one bed,” Tag said.

“We sleep on the floor. I will be fine.”

“It’s concrete.”

“It is warm and dry. I will not suffer.” Rast looked up at the ceiling and the faintly glowing light panels. “It is time to rest.”

“And you will insist.”

“It is my duty.” Rast rose to his feet and pulled Tag with him. They’d eaten on the floor because that was where Rast had placed the food.

“You don’t have furniture?”

“Very little. Come, it is late.”

“Right. I’ll go to bed,” Tag said with false cheerfulness.

Rast guided Tag onto the simple bunk and unfolded the synthetic blanket over the human’s body. Rast sat on the corner of the bunk, his ankles crossed and rested his hand on Tag’s shoulder. He didn’t speak, but he began to hum again, softly and in a rhythm that sounded faintly like a waltz. Tag shut his eyes and let the music flow over him. It was lulling; he remembered his mother singing when he’d awakened with an earache, songs about the great lands of old and sons, the pride of a mother’s heart, defending the lands. Tag drifted off.